Keep the Streets Empty for Me
by LaVioleBlanche
Summary: An AU loosely inspired by Hearts in Atlantis: featuring the charming fugitive Crowley, the surly ex-doctor Bobby, some precious Weechesters and weeCas, as well as various and sundry unsavory government agents.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing but the DVDs which I hoard like precious gold.

...

He staggers away from the road, away from the torchlights and gunfire, clutching his bleeding side. Another shot rings out, catching his left leg, and he goes tumbling head-over-arse into a ditch. In the dark, it must seem to his pursuers that he's disappeared. Fighting desperately to maintain that illusion, he crawls through the muddy grass and over to the high wooden fence that trims the trench. Gripping the rain-dampened slats of wood, he pulls himself along some ten meters before his fumbling fingers locate a gap wide enough for him to squeeze through.

His suit jacket catches on the way in, tearing in half, and the fresh wound in his leg drags over a splinter. He bites down on his tongue to muffle a shout, tasting blood, and wishes he had energy enough to spare for a quick numbing Influence.

He emerges (one shoe less, having lost the struggle with the fence) into what looks like a junkyard or... no, it's a scrapyard, rusting cars and spare parts littered about. Breathing hard, he heaves himself upright and limps away from the sound of the search party and toward the most windproof-looking automobile.

A low growl to his right makes him freeze, and he curses himself for the hundredth time that night for losing his sidearm two states back. He turns to face the massive, slavering junkyard mutt that's eyeing him like a pound of sirloin.

"Easy, now, pup," he tells it carefully, raising a hand and calling on every moment of his dog-training days. "Nice boy," he tries.

The dog considers this, then decides that no, in fact, it isn't a nice boy. It takes two menacing steps forward, looking like it's debating the merits of leg meat versus neck meat, but it halts in surprise when he snaps, "Stay!", using every last drop of Influence he has reserved. Against all odds, the dog's rabid brain seems to recognize this newcomer as an authority figure, and it whines once.

"Sit!" He orders desperately.

The dog sits.

He offers a hand. The dog takes a few cautious steps and licks his palm, swiping away the blood. "Good," he whispers, "Good boy."

He stumbles toward the car and the dog follows him, wagging the stump of its tail and snuffling curiously. He pries the door open, wincing at the screech of rusty metal, and hauls himself inside. It's cramped and the seat is half-gone, chewed to the springs, but it cuts down on the windchill. The dog huffs and settles just outside the door as it swings shut.

...

The first thing that he notes upon waking is that everything is sore. Not in the good way that indicates a night well-spent, but the way that suggests sleeping in an awkward position in the drafty, cramped backseat of an abandoned car. Which makes sense, because that's exactly what he was doing the last time he checked. What doesn't make sense is the fact that he seems to have migrated somehow to a considerably warmer, if somewhat lumpier and creakier, environment. He's instantly gripped with fear, but he clamps down on it- if he'd been caught by them, he'd be strapped to a steel table, not nestled in a slightly musty bed.

He risks a groan.

There's a chorus of small voices gasping in unison at ear level, so he cracks an eye. He is met with three wide gazes- green, hazel and blue.

"Ohh, what fresh hell?" He grunts.

"You said a bad word," a youthful but strangely gruff voice informs him. He manages to connect it to the blue eyes and dark hair hovering next to his face.

"Yes, thank you," he replies, lacking the coordination at the moment to rub his brow.

The one on the end- the green eyes and freckles- turns away and shouts at ear-splitting levels, "UNCLE BOBBY, HE'S AWAKE!"

The hazel-eyed one, which is a few inches lower than the other two, says nothing.

The sound of something heavy on wheels enters the room, and his vision is suddenly filled with a considerably older, ruggedly bearded face. "Yup," the man- presumably Uncle Bobby- says, halting his wheelchair a few feet away. "He's awake. Does he speak English?"

"Yes," he snips, scowling up at this strange lumberjack and his strange urchins.

"Good, because my French is pretty basic and my Japanese has gotten rusty." The gruff man leans back, settling next to the bed, and the children- three boys in pajamas who look about six, seven and three, respectively- huddle around him, staring. "So, you gonna gimme yer name, or do the boys get to give you one?"

'The Boys' look delighted at this prospect, and the blue-eyed one furrows his brow in deep concentration while the freckly one grins maniacally. The smallest child pushes long hair out of his face and frowns.

"Crowley," he supplies quickly, before anyone has a chance to name him 'Buttercup' or 'Assbutt' or whatever other charming thing their half-baked brains can come up with. It's one of a dozen aliases he's used, and he's always been particularly fond of it. He just hopes it matches whatever ID he happens to have in his wallet- if he still has his wallet.

"That yer first name or yer last?" Uncle Bobby asks skeptically.

"Yes," Crowley answers as sardonically as possible.

The bearded man scowls, which prompts a round of stifled giggles from Freckles and a suspicious squint from Blue Eyes.

"Uh-huh." Bobby turns to the children. "Kids, how 'bout you get on into the kitchen and get yerselves a snack while I have a chat with our guest?"

The children shuffle out obediently, and Crowley notes for the first time that the door to this room is solid steel, several inches thick- in fact, the whole room looks like something out of the _Hostel_ movies. He shifts uncomfortably, wondering if maybe he'd have been better off if his former colleagues _had_ got hold of him. He presses with his mind, with the little strength he has left, trying to urge this man into trusting him.

"Okay," the larger man glares from under the brim of his hat. "You wanna tell me why and how you ended up bunkin' in one of my cars with no wallet, one shoe, and a couple bullet holes in yer hide?"

So much for trust.

"Erm," Crowley tries.

He gets an unimpressed eyebrow-raise.

"I'm from New York," he starts cautiously, falling back on one of his oldest aliases, the most reliable and the least likely to be recognized.

"You don't sound like you're from New York."

"Not originally, no," he admits easily- as easily as is possible with the wounds in his side and leg starting to throb with a vengeance. "London-born. Moved to New York ten years ago. I'm a literary agent."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I was passing through, on my way to California to meet with a writer. Only meant to be in town for a day."

He glances up at Bobby's face to gauge his reaction; he seems to be buying it, so Crowley continues.

"Simply put, I was mugged. Couple of misguided youths took me by surprise on the road when I was out for a stroll. They got my wallet, shouted a few threats. When I tried to run, they shot me." He wants to throw some emotion in, put some force and conviction into his words, but the pain is creeping into the corners of his consciousness, blurring his already-shaky vision.

The American snorts. "Well, that's a pile of horseshit, but I'm sure the sheriff'll be able to clear a few things up when she gets here."

"Good," Crowley says automatically. "Wonderful. I'm sure everything will be sorted."

The only reaction that gets is another skeptically raised eyebrow.

Clearing his throat, he asks in his best raspy-weak-help-me-I'm-frail voice, "Any chance I could get a drink?"

Bobby scrutinizes him a few moments longer before nodding. "Yeah, the painkillers tend to dry out yer throat. What do you want?"

"Scotch, preferably," the Englishman says with the best grin he can manage. "But lacking that, water will do just fine." The grin lasts only a few seconds before a bolt of pain turns it into a sort of shaky grimace.

"Right," his host grunts, turning and wheeling to the door. "Back in a sec."

"Mmhm," Crowley lays his head down on the pillow, feigning sleepiness (although not feigning as much as he'd like to be). He listens closely, hearing the wheels echo down a brief corridor, followed by the sound of a lift being shut and creaking away into the distance above.

He takes a deep breath, wincing at the protest his side raises, and forces himself to roll over the edge of the cot. He intends to catch himself on his hands and right knee, but of course that goes to hell and he lands heavily on his left side. He curls involuntarily into a wheezing ball of agony, fists clenching as he bites back the shout in his throat. He wastes a few precious seconds lying there trying to tamp down the urge to crawl docilely back into the bed and sleep. Finally, he heaves himself onto his knees and, using the mattress for support, up on both feet, where he balances, swaying slightly but upright nonetheless.

He feels a swell of pride and turns to take three triumphant steps toward the exit.

Then several things happen at once: he hears a door slam somewhere above him, feels an unexpected and unpleasant ripping sensation near his right kidney, feels his knee give out, and is quite suddenly and violently reintroduced to the floor, face-first.

...


	2. Chapter 2

(To the person that asked, I made Crowley a Londoner rather than a Scot because he has a London accent and I couldn't really have him be Scottish in this verse and still have his normal accent so yeah /shrug)

He wakes up a second time on the camp-bed, and wonders briefly if his escape attempt was some sort of hallucination brought on by the painkillers. Then his nose and cheek throb, reminding him of his meeting with the concrete. He makes no attempt to move this time, instead letting his body tell him once again just how much it hates him. He contemplates groaning, but decides it's not worth the effort and that he'd rather just lie here and die a slow, silent death.

He realizes that there are voices somewhere nearby, in the doorway from the sound of it. A man- Bobby, most likely- and an unknown woman, presumably the aforementioned sheriff.

"Jesus, Bobby, you didn't tell me he looks like he's been hit by a goddamn truck."

"Pulled two slugs out of 'im."

She makes a huffing sound, like she's either impressed or irritated. "You still got em? I could run the database-"

"Nah, they were flattened- looked like 9mms."

"Hm. Well, you got a story to go with those bullets?"

Bobby grunts noncommittally. "Says he was mugged. I'm sure there's more to it, but you and your people should keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."

"Will do. You'll let me know when he's up and ready for a chat?"

"Sure thing."

Her footsteps pause outside the door, and she says in a lighter tone, "It's good to see you treating people again, doc."

"I'm not treating people; I'm treating the lone jackass that stumbled half-dead into my backyard," Bobby snaps.

It takes a lot of concentration on Crowley's part not to scoff.

The sheriff says her goodbyes and disappears upstairs.

Bobby heaves a sigh and rolls over to lift his guest's shirt, rough knuckles brushing over Crowley's belly and raising goosebumps.

He opens his eyes, a grin playing around his lips. "You always cop a feel when your patients are sleeping?"

Bobby scowls, tugging at the bandages once and pulling his hand back. "D'you have any idea how hard it is to haul yer ass off the floor and carry you in a wheelchair?"

"You have my undying gratitude," Crowley says with flawless sincerity.

The older man grumbles something under his breath and yanks the blankets aside to examine the wound in his leg.

"You're doin' pretty well," Bobby declares, replacing the covers. "I think you'll be well enough to have a chat with the sheriff tomorrow."

"Hurrah," the dark-haired man responds dryly.

"Yeah, she's a real peach; I'm sure you two will get along like a house on fire," the American reaches into the kit he carries in his lap and digs around, coming up with a sterile syringe and a small bottle of morphine. "This'll keep you gentle til then- no more escape attempts." He taps the syringe, slips the needle into his patient's arm. "And don't think you're gonna get out of explaining why, exactly, you're so desperate to get outta here."

Crowley swallows and tries not to look guilty.

"Now, I'm gonna go make some soup and sandwiches, and you're gonna eat what I bring you. Clear?"

"Yes?"

"Good." Bobby turns around and makes for the door.

"You're a doctor," Crowley comments as casually as possible.

Bobby doesn't pause as he replies over his shoulder, "Not anymore."

The door closes before the conversation can be pursued further, and Crowley settles back and lets the morphine take the edge off. He's asleep again by the time Bobby comes back.

...


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley can tell when the sheriff returns the next day- she and Bobby argue the entire way from the door to the basement. He can also tell that the kids must be out of the house, because the conversation between the two consists mainly of shouted expletives.

"Look, just keep in mind that he's been shot twice, will ya?"

"Don't worry, Singer, I'm not gonna scare your nice young gentleman caller."

Bobby's retort is muffled by the clang of the door.

The sheriff in an attractive, stern-looking woman who strolls around the periphery of the room before leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

"So," she says shortly, "_Crowley_, huh?"

"In the flesh." He smiles carefully, thanking god for morphine. "And you must be Sheriff Mills."

"Yep." Her eyes are almost accusatory as they scan him. "Bobby tells me you were pretty lucky- no major arteries or organs messed up."

"I'm a lucky guy."

"Mm." She drags a chair over and sits in it backward, like a detective in a procedural cop show. "He also tells me you're not too keen on telling him much about how you got those plugholes."

"I've told him all the information that he needs to know about me."

She snorts and gives him a look that has no doubt brought hardened shoplifters and drug peddlers to their knees. He gives her a mild, perfectly unemotional stare in return. She sighs.

"Here's the thing," she says at length, leaning forward menacingly. "I ain't seen Bobby this upbeat in years. He's gone through some tough shit the last couple years, and if patching up shady Brits is what gets him through it then I'm not gonna interfere. But if you so much as lay a finger on one of his kids, or mess with Bobby in any way, I will hunt your ass down and throw you in jail for every crime I can think up and then some. Clear?"

He salutes sharply, then winces. She _tsks_ and stands, hands on her hips, still glaring as she backs out of the room and closes the door. He lets his head fall back into the pillow, drifting off again.

He's awakened some time later by a loud clatter from upstairs, and a childish yelp.

"What...?"

He waits for Bobby's gruff voice to sound out, to sort out whatever unholy mess has just occurred upstairs. There's only a worrying and slightly guilty silence.

Feeling a cold trickle of fear go down his back like a melting ice cube, Crowley rolls off the bed, climbs up the chair to his feet and forces himself to hobble to the lift.

It's his first time being conscious in the upper part of the house, and he scans the living room quickly for something that might be used to deter any intruders. Grabbing a lamp from the nearby book-scattered desktop, he shuffles painfully toward the kitchen.

Instead of an armed, suit-wearing man built like a linebacker, like he's expecting, he sees a disarray of juice, animal crackers, and potato chips scattered across the linoleum and a sheepish-looking child- Dean, he recalls from overheard conversations, the eldest- balanced precariously atop the counter.

Crowley sighs and lowers the lamp, relief dulling the throb in his leg. "Hello."

"Hi," Dean says, wincing shamefacedly.

"Making a snack?"

"Sammy's hungry." The boy says defensively. "I just slipped."

Crowley eyes the mess on the floor skeptically. "Shouldn't Bobby be making lunch?"

"He's in town doing errands," Dean snaps. "He said I'm in charge, and I can take care of Sammy and Cas all on my own."

"Of course." The Englishman rubs his forehead and turns. "I'll leave you to it."

"But-" The hesitance in the kid's voice makes Crowley turn back despite himself.

"Yes?"

Dean's brow furrows as he says, "But you can- you can help me if you want." He says it like he's making an allowance, just this once. His jaw is set in an imperious jut but his eyes are wide and pleading.

Crowley smiles a little. "All right. What have we got in?"

Dean bites his lip. "Umm. Frozen pizza?"

"Frozen pizza?" Crowley scowls. "I don't _think_ so." He rolls up his sleeves and snags the apron that hangs from the door.

...

It's about two hours later that Bobby arrives home, looking stressed and worn. He's carrying a stack of papers and a briefcase, which he tosses irritably onto the desk.

"Boys!" He calls. "I'm back! Sorry I took so long- how d'you feel about pizza for dinner again?" Hearing a giggle from the kitchen, he frowns and makes his way toward the sound.

The room is warm and bright- the faulty lightbulb has been changed and the oven is on- and it smells like spices and baking. He finds the three boys gathered at the table, the plates in front of them scraped clean. Dean is tickling Sam, who is cackling with mirth while Castiel folds their napkins into origami shapes for the three-year-old to play with.

Standing at the stove is Crowley, apron tied around his waist, leaning against the oven and watching the boys over his shoulder with a small smile.

"Uncle Bobby!" Dean cries happily, catching sight of the man. His shout alerts Crowley, who turns quickly, wooden spoon in hand.

"Hi, boys," Bobby says slowly, raising an eyebrow. "What's goin' on here?"

"Mister Crowley made dinner," Castiel explains, pointing to the pots and pans on the counter.

"Did he?" The older man glances critically at his guest, who coughs, still leaning on the stove. "What'd he make?"

"Pasgetti!" Sam chirps.

"And meatballs. And mashed potatoes and sauce," Dean adds, bearing evidence of said sauce all over his cheeks and chin.

"...I see." Bobby looks at Crowley once more.

The Englishman shifts and gestures at the oven. "There's pie on the way, too."

"_Pie_?" The bearded man's eyebrows have reached almost to his hairline. It's been, Christ- two years since anyone baked a pie in this kitchen.

Dean is grinning so hard his face looks in danger of splitting in half. "It's apple!"

Bobby's expression doesn't change, and Crowley clears his throat again. "Boys, why don't you go uh..."

"Do your homework," Bobby supplies.

"...And I'll call you when the pie is done," Crowley finishes awkwardly.

The children all voice some muttered complaints but they shuffle obediently off to the living room.

"How the hell d'you know how to make all this?" Bobby asks once they're out of range.

Crowley shrugs. "I spent three years studying the culinary arts. It's a hobby."

"In between being a literary agent, right?"

"Of course," he replies easily, gathering up the dishes. He makes his way carefully to the sink and deposits them into the pre-sudsy water, avoiding the older man's stare. "Kept a plate warm for you, since they insisted you would be home any second."

In a strange state of numb acceptance, Bobby rolls to the stove and lifts the cover of a steaming plate. The scent of garlic and tomato and something familiar that he can't place is so rich his mouth waters, and his stomach gives a weak rumble, which he covers with a cough.

He takes the plate over to the table like he's carrying a bomb, grabbing a beer from the fridge on his way. He loads his fork up with a little bit of everything, transfers it to his mouth with an air of both expectancy and extreme indifference.

He manages not to make wholly inappropriate sounds.

Barely.

He's shoveled down about half the plate in under ten seconds when he remembers he's not alone. When he looks up, he sees Crowley watching him, arms folded, leaning against the wall with an expression of stifled glee.

"Palatable?" He asks, like he can't tell.

"'S alright," Bobby gets out. "You just gonna stand there watchin' me eat?"

"I had some earlier," the dark-haired man says with a wave. "Dean insisted that I, quote, 'prove it's not poisoned'."

"Yup, that'd be Dean." The doctor fishes a meatball onto his bread and glances up, torn between comfortable conversation and discomfort at how easy it is. That's when he realizes that Crowley isn't leaning against the wall casually- he's using it to hold himself up, his left leg shaking with tremors and his body crooked as he avoids putting pressure on it. "Jesus, sit down, ya idjit! You'll rip yer damn stitches!"

"I'm fi-"

"Sit. _Down_," Bobby growls.

Crowley sits down.

"How long've you been on yer feet?"

The injured man shrugs. "I sat down once or twice."

"That's not an answer," Bobby snaps, grabbing his patient's wounded leg and hauling it into his lap to roll up his borrowed pajama pants.

In an effort to ignore the slide of calloused palms up the inside of his calf and toward his thigh, Crowley makes a bold attempt at conversation. "So, Doctor Singer-"

"Don't- do _not_ call me that," Bobby says, sounding fed-up already.

"Fine. Robert, then."

The doctor sighs heavily. "Bobby. Just- Bobby."

Crowley makes a face.

Bobby rolls his eyes under the brim of his cap. "You were sayin'?"

"I, uh..." The dark-haired man blinks. "Sorry, I've forgotten."

The American snorts. "Well, at least your leg's healin' up alright." He glances down and seems to realize that he's cradling another man's bare leg in his lap, coughing and rolling the fabric back down as he removes the limb gently. Crowley wiggles his toes and sets his foot back on the floor as Bobby turns back to his plate.

"What'd you put in this?" The bearded man asks a moment later around a mouthful. "It tastes... different. Good, but different."

"So you admit it's good," Crowley grins. He gets another long-suffering sigh from across the table. He shrugs. "Comes of not buying it in a package." He thinks for a second, then adds, "And it could be the nutmeg."

"You put _nutmeg_ in _meatballs_?" The doctor looks confused and alarmed, obviously treading in new dining territory.

"And the spaghetti," Crowley admits easily. "The pie, too, obviously. I like to play with spices, and nutmeg was all you really had."

Bobby grunts in acknowledgment. "Well, make a list and I'll pick some stuff up next time I..." He falters and they both look at each other, simultaneously realizing the unspoken assumption in the older man's words. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Bobby scrapes the last of the food into his mouth and drops his plate into the sink. "Pretty good," he says again.

Crowley shrugs demurely. "Maybe I'll make pancakes tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Bobby says sharply, "You're gonna take it easy- I don't need you bleeding out all over my house."

"Yes, sir," the dark-haired man smirks, then jumps a little when the timer for the oven goes off.

About five seconds later the kids come barreling back into the kitchen, demanding dessert.

The doctor rolls his eyes and makes excuses when he is scolded by all for having neither ice cream or whipped cream. It doesn't matter; the pie is delicious without it.


	4. Chapter 4

After the five of them polish off nearly the entire pie, Bobby takes charge of the dishes, shooing Crowley and the children off to bed, to great protest. The gruff man is insistent though, and before long Crowley is sound asleep thanks to a little help from some morphine and the distant sound of thunder.

Unfortunately, sleep isn't quite as restful as he'd hoped.

_He's back in the Laboratory, bound to the steel table affectionately referred to as the Rack, electrodes pinned across his body, the whirring screech of the bone saw in his ear. He tires futilely to squirm away, to pry the cold bars from his limbs before the saw can touch him. But of course that's not how this works, and the bars tighten, cutting into his skin as the blade draws closer, the doctor's droning voice explaining the procedure to his audience, telling them about how he's going to remove the skullcap and stimulate the pain center of the subject's brain, to illicit a response. He's trying to speak, to plead, to hurl insults, but the collar around his throat sends its continuous pulses of electricity to his nerves, crippling him. He can't even scream as the saw descends._

He jerks awake in a cold sweat and immediately starts shaking out his arms, reassuring himself that he can move, that he's safe. It's a routine he's gotten used to, but this is the first time he's had to do it since his arrival.

He rolls over to see Castiel inches from his nose.

"Oh Jesus!" Crowley wheezes, trying to slow his heart rate back to normal human speed. "You scared the pis- er, the heck out of me."

"I had a bad dream," the child whimpers, clutching his raggedy-looking stuffed puffin (penguin? Who knows, some kind of weird bird) and looking like he expects Crowley to belt him over the head at any second.

The older man frowns in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner. "Why didn't you just go cuddle up with Bobby?"

Castiel looks terrified by the thought, and Crowley can't really blame him. "Yeah, alright, maybe he's not really a cuddler. Why not Dean, then?"

The kid's face crumples into not-quite-tears and Crowley is seized by a bolt of terror and panic and uncalled-for guilt. "Oh god, no, don't do that! What's wrong? What'd I say?"

"I duh-don't wuh-want Dean to think I'm a- a baby!" Cas sobs.

"Oh, for- shh, calm down, alright? Take a few deep breaths, nice and slow." He's not really good with children, crying or otherwise. His hands twitch awkwardly, debating whether to give the kid a pat on the head or a hug or just shoo him away. "There, there," he tries, air-patting Cas' tiny shoulder.

Castiel sniffles, gulping air. Crowley sighs.

"C'mon," he says, flicking the blankets aside and scooting over to make room. "Up you get."

The blue-eyed boy climbs easily into the bed, arranging himself and his puffin so that everyone is comfortable on the tiny cot.

"Right," the Englishman continues, squashed between the wall and the puffin. "So, wanna tell me what this bad dream was about?"

He's expecting to hear something about monsters, scary dogs, spiders or whatever it is kids get scared of in the night- not the answer he gets.

"There were bad men. Scary men. In black suits, like church. They were coming here to get you, to take you away. They wanted to hurt you."

That... is not the answer he was expecting. He twists to get a better look at the boy, sees the haunted glow in his eyes and realizes with a jolt that he's not the only one in the house with power. Poor kid.

"Look, I'll make you a deal."

"H-huh?" The dark-haired boy looks up, wide-eyed.

Crowley winks conspiratorially. "You don't tell Bobby that I was having a nightmare, and I won't tell Dean that you were."

Castiel seems to consider this, a look of intense concentration crossing his face, and then he nods affirmatively, taking the Englishman's big hand and shaking it. "Deal."

Outside, lightning flashes, chased by a long, low roll of thunder. Crowley's eyes have drifted halfway to shut when the door creaks. Instantly alert, he glances toward the sound to see-

-two more small faces, peering hesitantly around the doorframe. When they realize they've been spotted, Dean and Sam shuffle forward to the edge of the bed, looking expectant but reserved.

"Sammy's scared of the lightning," Dean blurts stiffly. Castiel stares at him, unblinking.

"Am not!" Sam protests, scrambling onto the bed and wedging himself between Castiel and Crowley. "_Dean_ got scared. An' he wanted to snug Cas but Cas wasn't there so Dean made me come help find Cas so Dean could snug him!"

"...What?" The only adult in the room is far too tired to make any sort of sense out of what the child is saying.

Dean remains in place, tiny hands balling the hem of his t-shirt as he scowls at the floor.

Cas breaks the silence. "Come on, Dean." He pulls the blankets up and scoots back on the mattress, making room.

Still not meeting anyone's gaze, the boy hauls himself up and squirms into the space. With a strange little almost-smile, Castiel reaches up and strokes Dean's hair placatingly. Dean ignores him a few moments, still sullen, and Cas falters, looking wounded. Immediately, the green-eyed boy turns over and throws his arms around his friend, burying his face in Castiel's neck.

Sam, meanwhile, has wriggled himself down under the covers so that he is somehow elbowing Crowley in the neck and kneeing him in the chest.

"Everyone comfortable?" He asks, sarcasm warring with the involuntary swell of affection he feels.

His only answer is a quiet snuffle from Cas and a sigh from Sammy.

Knowing no one can see him, Crowley lets himself smile as he tucks the blankets up around Sam's shoulders, pulls it over a bit so that Dean's feet are covered, and closes his eyes once more.

...

He is startled awake once more an indeterminate amount of time later by a thrashing foot to the face. He sputters and removes Sam's toes from his nostril, wincing at the twinge in his leg.

The sound of the lift lowering makes him tense and shut his eyes, peering from under squinted lids.

Bobby comes wheeling in at high speed, looking panicked, and Crowley realizes that he must have gone to get the boys up for breakfast only to find their beds empty. The former doctor pauses, catching sight of the bed, and his expression shifts from furious to shocked. Crowley remains absolutely still, even when one of Sammy's flailing hands latches onto his nose. Bobby approaches the bed quietly, and Crowley sees the shock replaced by a kind of complex mix of tenderness and sorrow.

The older man reaches out and gently unhooks Sam's curled fingers, retrieves Castiel's puffin from the floor and nestles it back in the boy's arms, then turns and makes his way back to the lift.

Crowley feels the smile creep back onto his face.

Eventually the kids wake him up again with demands that he make breakfast for them, so he hauls himself from the bed and into the lift (with Sam hanging off his neck like a limpet and the other two following close behind).

Bobby is seated at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper, and he looks up with a troubled expression that quickly dissolves into a crooked grin when he sees his guest's entourage. He folds the paper and pushes away from the table, reaching for the coffeepot on the counter. "Morning," he says, apparently to all of them. "Thought we might go out for pancakes today. How's that sound?"

"Pamcakes!" Sam shrieks enthusiastically in Crowley's ear, making him wince and pry the boy's arms from his throat.

The doorbell rings, and Crowley instinctively tenses, hunching his shoulders.

"That'll probably be Pam, from the hospital," Bobby says, raising an eyebrow. "She said she'd stop by and bring me a new suture kit and some more painkillers." He nods at Dean. "Go let her in, willya?"

Dean stops ruffling Castiel's hair and goes scampering toward the door.

Bobby clears his throat and fixes Crowley with a piercing look. "So, you and I need to have a talk."

"Do we?" He replies easily, ignoring the tension creeping back up his spine.

The older man nods and opens his mouth to speak, but Dean's voice pipes up from the hall. "Uncle Bobby, it's not Pam!"

The two men turn in surprise. "Who is it?" Bobby calls, turning and beginning to wheel himself toward the entrance.

"The FBI!"

The tension turns to cold terror.


End file.
